The Diary of Young Sherlock Holmes
by GoggleLouLou
Summary: As Sherlock leaves his childhood home for the strange new world of university, he begins a personal diary which gives him an outlet to express his innermost thoughts and feelings. Will he ever stop obsessing over food? Will he find love? Or will University life prove more difficult than he first anticipated? WARNING: Eating disorder/Drug use/Strong Language/Sexual references.
1. Chapter 1

Tuesday 20th September 1999 10.30pm

Dear Diary,

Do you ever get the urge to just write something? I do. Often. It's as though my whole body and mind are full to bursting and whatever I'm full of needs somewhere to go. Sometimes it overwhelms me and I sit down with my notepad and a pen and I end up writing the most bizarre things; lists, poems, stories - none of them particularly good - but also streams of consciousness. Those are the most satisfying. When I write what's in my head, I can feel myself shrinking back to my normal size as the excess thoughts and feelings are siphoned off. Sometimes I look back at what I've written and I'm embarrassed or sad, but often it helps me to realise things about myself that I never knew before. I suppose that's helpful.

At the moment the excess feelings that need siphoning are mostly to do with the thought of moving out. I'm about to leave my childhood home to take care of myself for the first time. Everyone expects me to worry about missing home or making friends, but my main concern is what will happen if I'm unable to eat. Eating is something I've struggled with on and off for nearly 5 years. _What's so difficult?_ You may ask. Well, that's a rather complicated question to answer to be perfectly honest. Eating disorders are complicated by nature; that's why they're such a bitch to recover from. But I'm mostly there now. Mostly. In the last few days I think I've been eating less, though it's difficult to tell. I've never been one of those people who counts every calorie and plans every meal, I work by appetite and hunger. Recently I've been more _and less_ hungry at the same time. Does that make sense? I should try to make more sense. How about this; I've felt the effects of not eating enough, but I've also lost the urge to eat more. I wish I could work out why.

Anyway, I'll be okay. I'll build myself back up no problem. I don't think I've lost any weight. This is turning into one of those streams of consciousness things and I didn't want it to. I wanted it to be more like a diary; more like speaking to someone. A lot of my streams of consciousness end up being about food and it makes me sad. Even when I'm eating well, it's always on my mind and however much I try to focus on other things, I always return to thinking about my disorder. Take right now for instance; I'm supposed to be writing about moving out in two day's time and all I can talk about is how I'm still thinking inexplicably about food. For goodness sake Sherlock!

There are many things that I wish I could change about myself. I've never been someone who fits into social situations very easily, and I'm bored by my own thoughts sometimes. My mind seems to race constantly, but instead of thinking anything useful I find myself obsessing over the style of someone's hair, or food, or the way a person is walking, or food. That's something I think no-one realises about minds like mine. Obsession can become desperately dull. Perhaps moving away from home will give me the breathing space to act differently. Perhaps. I know it's foolish to try to run away from a problem, especially when the problem is inside you. We shall see.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_X_


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Diary,

Today is my last day in London, at least until Christmas. I am bound for University College, Oxford to read Chemistry; the same College that my father and brother attended. A few weeks ago this day seemed so far away, but it has sneaked up on me and suddenly I am packing my life into a suitcase and a few plastic bags. It's only when you're forced to pick and choose between which possessions are essential and which can be left behind that you realise how much crap you have accumulated in your short life. I am eighteen years old, and though I try to clear things out at least once a year, the amount of pointless junk I elect to keep is truly embarrassing.

It's not as though I'm particularly sentimental. Perhaps the most pointless keepsakes I posses are in the form of clothes. Pointless, but at least understandable. For a shockingly long period of time, it was my goal to be able to fit back into the clothes I wore as a ten year old, and although I've now accepted that it will never happen, I just can't seem to bring myself to throw them away. As I alluded to before – even though my disorder is not currently active, I am still obsessed by it. I still imagine what it would be like to wear those clothes again. I still live in hope.

I have not packed those clothes to take with me. Perhaps this is the first step in letting go of them. I will also not be bringing a set of scales, but I am clinging on to the thought that I can easily buy some after I arrive. It is my habit to weigh myself twice a day; morning and night, just to check that I haven't somehow ballooned in the intervening hours. I am extremely reluctant to stop, but I know I must. _You must stop this childish game Sherly. I don't think Mummy's nerves will last another of your bouts in hospital. _Mycroft, my brother, never did understand. I believe he never tried to. But we are more alike than he would care to admit.

He works for the government now in a position which, despite being relatively low down from what I can deduce, allows him to believe he is important and deserves the utmost respect. I liked him more before he took this job.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday 22nd September 1999

Dear Diary,

Here I am. My new home. The room is a decent size and pleasant enough, but I find it eerie that it's full of my things. It's as though I've stepped through some kind of portal and into a parallel universe. This is more than a holiday, more than a visit. This is me moving out. There's a side of me that rejoices in this new level of independence, and there's a part of that side that sees it as an excuse to stop eating. What Mother can't see won't hurt her after all. But I know I can't, I mustn't, I shouldn't. The trouble is I so easily could.

As I was carrying my suitcase and bags up to my room earlier, I met a boy in the hallway. He had longish, straight blond hair, a long face and wore tight leather trousers and a baggy denim jacket over a tight T-Shirt. There was a cigarette hanging limply out of his mouth. He talked slowly and without much emotion.

"Alright?" he said as I passed him. "I'm Toby."

"Sherlock"

"Nice gaff this." he said, looking around him.

I smiled inwardly. I wonder if anyone has ever referred to this historical college as a "gaff" before.

"Quite nice, yes"

I made to continue my journey, but he cut in

" 'Ere, where you from? Sound like a Londoner to me, but a bit 'igher up the old social ladder. S'pose I best get used to rubbin' shoulders with the elite. My mum weren't 'alf proud when I got in 'ere. First of me family to even do A levels and 'ere I am in Oxford. They say I'm a Maths genius."

Toby the Maths genius intrigues me. I've never met anyone quite like him before. He seemed completely at ease in these new, unfamiliar surroundings, talking to an unfamiliar person. I wish I could be more like him.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	4. Chapter 4

Friday 23rd September 1999

Dear Diary,

Toby the Maths genius came to sit with me at dinner last night. He did most of the talking. As unlikely as the friendship might seem, perhaps it isn't so strange considering both of us are slightly abnormal from the perspective of our peers. Toby is from a state funded school in the east end of London where few pupils get into university let alone Oxbridge, whilst I am socially awkward, to put it mildly.

"I made the local papers" he said through a mouthful of chicken "first in the 'ole 'istory of the school to come 'ere"

I nodded, forced a smile and put a piece of carrot in my mouth.

Listening to Toby the Maths genius talk was a good way to distract myself from thinking about the food I was eating. I still want to be well and eat, but I've found that the bad thoughts I spent so long pushing back have been reappearing thick and fast. They're not overwhelming yet, but they're there, like sleek black cats prowling around my mind waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. I just need to keep an eye on them for now. But I must say it does make a conversation more difficult to follow when you're constantly looking over your metaphorical shoulder expecting to see claws out, teeth bared, hissing, spitting, anger, hatred.

"You know what I mean?"

"Mmmm"

"So anyway, fancy going down the pub tonight? The King's Arms isn't far"

The King's Arms was a nice enough place. Just down the road from the Bodleian Library. Toby continued to talk, and after half an hour or so we were joined by a couple of girls and a boy who had just moved in to Trinity College. Lucy is a tiny little thing, barely reaching my shoulder. She reminds me slightly of a blond squirrel, with big round eyes that blink a lot and a high ponytail that bounces as she walks. She too is terribly talkative, but in contrast to Toby the Maths genuis, she speaks at the speed of light without much pause.

"I mean, it's so exciting isn't it? To actually be here at last! I mean I've wanted to come here since I was a little girl and so it's a dream come true or something. I mean, not here this pub, here this Uni" She laughed a high pitched jarring laugh and turned to me. "So what are you studying... is it Sherlock? What a great name that is by the way. I mean you don't hear of many these days do you? Lucy's fairly common, though my real name is actually Lucinda. Imagine that! What did you say you were studying Sherlock?"

"Chemistry. I'm at University College with Toby"

"Oh, I bet you're a whizz with all that Sciency stuff. Not really a numbers person myself. I'm doing Enligh Literature."

The other girl, Mandy, spoke a little when she could get a word in, but she mainly laughed and smiled. She speaks with an American accent, Texas I think, though I could be wrong. A couple of times I caught her looking at me and there was an embarrassed giggle. I don't really know what to make of her. She's taller than Mandy the squirrel, and broader. Bigger. Not fat, but well covered and quite curvy. She seems relatively plain, with shoulder length curly brown hair and no make up.

The boy that came over with them never said a word, but was introduced as Tom. He sat next to me and smiled and laughed with the conversation but he didn't tell us a single thing about himself. I'm not even sure what he studies, though it's likely to be Classics judging by the backwards Latin printed on the edge of his hand where he must have smudged it writing. At the end of the night, silent Tom shook our hands and nodded to us before leaving, and Lucy the squirrel and American Mandy promised that we would meet again soon. For once I'm actually looking forward to a social occasion.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	5. Chapter 5

Sunday 25th September 1999

Dear Diary,

I can feel it happening. My mind is racing, and every other thought is related to food, weight, hunger or bones. Perhaps this is how I ground myself? This is where I find consistency? As my head darts about in all directions, food brings it back always to the same point. And, like a lighthouse, this obsession leads me safely from the turbulent crashing waves of confusion, to the safe, peaceful shoreline of predictability. Hunger is predictable in the most part. Weight loss is predictable too.

I didn't want this to happen again; I wanted to make the most of University life. I imagined finishing my first year, well fed and content; perhaps with friends who understood me or even a lover of some description. Falling prey to this tedious illness again was never part of the plan. So here I sit, pen in hand, hoping to reduce the weight of excess thought by spilling my soul onto this paper. If I reduce the thoughts, perhaps I won't feel so intolerably big. Perhaps my mind will slow and I will take a few deep breaths and start back on the path that I had planned for myself. I must be strong.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday 29th September 1999

Dear Diary,

I have fallen deep. I am under the control of the disorder, and at the moment there is nothing that I can do to stop it. I'm not even finishing everything on my plate any more. Finishing what is in front of you is something that the hospitals are very big on. I've adopted it as a measure of health, though of course it's not exactly accurate. If I place a few carrot sticks onto a plate and then eat them all, I can convince myself that I'm healthy. To not even finish the plate any more is evidence that I've stopped caring. Or perhaps I'm just tired of fooling myself. I'm tired of all of It.

Toby the Maths genius doesn't suspect anything as far as I'm aware. Perhaps he does but he doesn't know what to say. Nobody seems to know what to say; they never have. I just wish I could go back to the relationship with food that I had before I came here. I also wish I could lose another stone, though without any scales I wouldn't know if I did. My clothes have become looser, they way they do when I am losing, and life has become somehow _less_, as though someone has turned it down a few notches. I am less present and more ethereal. I prefer it this way. It feels safer.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	7. Chapter 7

Monday 3nd October 1999

Dear Diary,

What an bizarre weekend I've had. Mycroft decided to visit unexpectedly on Saturday. He said he had business with one of his old professors, but I knew that he had come to check up on me. Though I protested my health, he could tell straight away that I was going downhill. He's seen me like this too many times not to know the difference. He shouted a bit and I closed up and refused to speak. He told me I was being hateful and selfish, and that I needed to grow up and realise that my actions affect other people too. I didn't tell him about the black cats pouncing, or the confusion of thoughts that can only be calmed by this predictability. I didn't tell him about all the food I've managed to eat in spite of what's going on in my mind. I just stared at the wall and thought about lunch.

I'm exhausted by this whole thing to be honest. And thoroughly bored. It's tiresome. I'm tired. It's been five years. Five long, difficult years. Two hospital admissions, six therapists, one IV potassium pump and I've lost count of the number of meal plans I've been on. I finally thought I'd achieved a state of relative health, and look what happens! Perhaps there's no hope for me after all. But doesn't Mycroft see? Can't he tell that I don't want this? I never wanted any of this.

After Mycroft left me alone in my room, Toby the Maths genius knocked on my door. He had heard us arguing, though he hadn't heard what it was about. I didn't explain. Instead, Toby came and sat next to me on the bed where I was still staring blankly at the wall. He put an arm around one shoulder and rested his head on the other, his white blond hair tickling my face a little. I couldn't remember ever being so physically close to someone that I'm not related to.

"It's alright mate, brothers are dick'eads. 'Least mine is"

"Mycroft likes to think he cares. I know differently"

" 'E must care though really. Or 'e wouldn't be shoutin' the place down would 'e? Whassit about anyway?"

I sighed. I couldn't bring myself to explain.

"Just a childish feud."

He pulled away from me to look at my face

"If you say so mate. I'm not gonna press you. Fancy going down the chippie? I'm starving"

I went. Because it was him and he was so friendly and close and lovely, I went.

That night we decided to drown our sorrows at one of the local clubs. I didn't catch the name of it. I was drinking vodka and diet coke mostly, with straight shots in between. I became quite drunk quite quickly, having only eaten the chips all day, and found that I was actually having quite a good time. My past experiences with alcohol have not been so pleasant. On several previous occasions throughout my youth, I've gotten hold of some whiskey in secret and saved it until just before bed. It didn't take much to get me drunk in those days, but even as the room began to spin and I slowly forgot who I was, I didn't stop drinking until I either passed out or threw up. I never liked the taste of it. I didn't particularly like the effects. But I did it anyway, and I never told a soul.

I think I'm right in saying that the night in question was the first time I'd ever enjoyed being drunk. Toby was making me laugh talking about the women he'd slept with back home.

" 'Course, none o' these posh birds 'ave ever met a bloke like me. They won't know what's 'it 'em. Oi oi! Look who it is!"

Among the hundreds of sweaty, writhing young bodies, through the darkness, Toby had spotted Lucy the Squirrel and American Mandy. Lucy looked as though she might explode with excitement when she saw us.

"OH MY GOD! Hi you guys! So glad we bumped into you. I mean that was such a fun night before right?"

She had acquired a nose piercing. It didn't suit her.

"Oh my god, if Tom was here it would be like a little reunion. So cute!"

"Yeah, where is Tom?" asked Mandy, in what I thought was a slightly more Eastern Texas accent than I'd first thought. It was difficult to tell with the loud music and the alcohol pumping through my veins.

"Oh, he had a shit tonne of Ancient Greek to translate before his tutorial. I don't envy him, do you?"

Confirmation. I was right about Silent Tom. As it turned out, I was also right about American Mandy.

She stayed with me for most of the night, following me around, dancing with me and laughing at the things I said, even when they weren't in any way funny. I ended up walking her home. It wasn't particularly far, but she asked me to, and that's the kind of thing that men are supposed to do isn't it? But when I was about to turn and leave, wondering vaguely where Toby had gone, she kissed me on the mouth. A big, wet, intense kiss that just kept going and going. I felt my hands take on a life of their own as they found their way onto her, exploring the curve of her waist.

"Wanna come inside?" she whispered softly, her eyes flicking up cheekily, daring me.

Had I been sober I would have said no. I would have pulled away and left her, retreated into myself and stored away the memory of the experience. I would have examined every moment of the kiss on my walk back to University College, obsessing over the details, remembering the feelings. But I was not sober. So I said yes.

Her room was covered in photographs of people and places. As we lay on the bed in a fit of passion, she rolled over a pile of handwritten letters and as she moved them I could see the return address scrawled across each one. Houston, Texas. I was right.

She was very beautiful. Or was I very drunk? The sight of her flesh turned me into a kind of animal. I found that I had to have more of her – her breasts, her thighs, the beautiful fuzz of hair between her legs. I needed to consume her, to be her, to make her face twist with pleasure.

When it was over, she fell asleep quickly. I lay still for some time, considering the weight that had grown in my stomach. It was a similar weight to the weight that appears after a binge. Not the physical weight of the food, but the guilt and the pressure of indulgence. My normal response would be to throw up – to undo the indulgence and punish myself. But how do you undo sex?

I dressed, crept out of her room and down the hallway, breaking into a run as I left the building. Why I was running I wasn't sure. Was I running from the sex? From the guilt? I'm not sure how long I ran for. It could have been hours. Eventually I found myself outside University College, exhausted, but feeling lighter and freer. It must have been about six O'clock in the morning before I finally slumped into bed and closed my eyes. And bed is more or less where I've stayed until now.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	8. Chapter 8

Tuesday 4th October 1999

Dear Diary,

As I am brushing my teeth, I often unbutton my shirt, drop my trousers and stare at my flesh in the mirror. I don't believe this is a common habit. It's not one that I've ever heard mentioned by anyone else, though I myself have never mentioned it to anyone either. The purpose of this ritual, I think, is to learn the shape of my body so that I can tell when it grows or shrinks. That ends up being the outcome anyway – all I know is that it brings me comfort to stare at my body and know in that moment exactly how much space I occupy.

American Mandy wants to go on a date with me. I am undecided about what to do. Not only do dates involve food, but they often involve kissing or touching or sex and I can't say that I'm completely over the disgusting guilty feeling acquired from the last sweaty escapade. Perhaps sex is just not for me. Mandy herself is nice enough. She seems to like me a lot, which is not something I'm terribly used to. Aside from the odd pleasant casual acquaintance at school, I have never had friends. Friendship was always something to be watched and observed from the outside; never something to be felt. I feel hunger and guilt, not friendship, never friendship. Perhaps this is why I'm struggling so much with food again now; because I'm being presented with the possible friendship of such lovely, genuine people and I simply don't know how to react. It's out of my comfort zone, and so the food brings me back to the safety and the predictability. It's tedious, yes, but it's calming and familiar.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	9. Chapter 9

Friday 7th October 1999

Dear Diary,

During the last few days, I have been eating rather well, and it has been gloriously relieving. I seem to have gathered together some of the motivation I'd lost, and I'm determined to kick this out of my life again. From where this motivation has come, I'm not completely sure, but I can't begin to explain how wonderful it feels to be nourished and to eat in response to my body's needs. I hope that I can hold on to this. There are still poisonous, bad thoughts flashing across the good ones, but I am finding it easier to ignore them and push them back.

For example, this evening I found myself eating an enormous meal at dinner. It was no doubt my body's response to having been starved. This is something I had to remind myself as I ate, and later as I sat in my room massaging my bloated stomach and trying not to think about my go to solution in times like this. When it became too much to bear, I went to the bathroom intent on bringing it all back up, but something deep down stopped me. Instead I picked up my toothbrush and proceeded to clean my teeth more thoroughly than I have in all my life. I must have been stood there for twenty five minutes or so, brushing and brushing, reaching all the tiny spaces that usually get missed and glorifying in the sense of purity and cleanliness. I didn't stop until the bloating had subsided enough to let me think of other things, and the minty fresh taste in my mouth stopped me from acting upon any thoughts that lingered. You see, I _can_ do this. I can and will be healthy. I must.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	10. Chapter 10

Saturday 8th October 1999

Dear Diary,

This afternoon I travelled back home to London on the train, on my Mother's request. I suspected that Mycroft had been speaking to her, and it seems that I was correct. As soon as I was through the door, she ushered me into the kitchen and offered me a sandwich which I refused.

She sighed.

"Sherlock, eat the sandwich. You can't do this again."

"Mother, please."

"I'm serious Sherlock, you eat that sandwich right now or I'm phoning the hospital."

"Fine."

I left the kitchen and retreated to my bedroom.

There is nothing she can do and she knows it. She can't force me into hospital, even if she pays for it privately, and I'm quite a way off being sectioned again. The sad thing is, I've been doing relatively well over the last week, but coming back to my childhood home and being pressured so blatantly by my mother has made it difficult again. I know she's trying to help me but it feels like meddling. She's meddling in my head, making things more confusing and chaotic and my response is to calm things down with order and predictability, with restriction and weight loss.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


	11. Chapter 11

Monday 10th October 1999

Dear Diary,

The weekend at home has left me feeling a little lost. Mother doesn't seem to appreciate the effort that goes into surviving each day of my life at the moment. Yesterday I came down to breakfast determined to eat something. This was in fact the first time I'd even considered breakfast in the last two weeks. I built myself up to it, not wanting to upset the woman that brought me into this world; trying I suppose to make up for the previous day's sandwich refusal. As I sat opposite her I could feel her scrutinising eyes on every mouthful, but I tried not to pay attention as her judgement made the whole thing much more difficult.

I finished my slice of toast and breathed deeply. Breakfast managed. But I could feel it inside me and it felt funny. I was unused to food so early in the morning. I began to feel a little sick and willed the feeling to dissipate, but as my mind focussed on it, it built and a nauseating panic started to surge through me.

"Excuse me" I said, and hurriedly left the kitchen, heading straight for the nearest bathroom. I could feel the toast climbing back up my throat and just as I reached the toilet, it made its appearance.

"Oh for Christ's sake" a voice behind me shouted. "I have absolutely no sympathy for you any more Sherlock. This is pathetic. Doesn't it occur to you that I'm sick to death of all this non-sense? Can't you think about other people for a change and use a little will power for once in your life? "

The injustice of my mother's words hit me hard and five minutes later I was in my room with hot tears streaming down my face, feeling more pathetic and worthless than I ever remember feeling. I hysterically began to scratch away patches of skin on my arms with my fingernails, wailing with the pain of still being alive. I felt I could scratch through the layers of skin and keep going until I reached bone, so mad was I. I wanted to reach into by body and pull apart organs, rip through blood vessels, and tear out the wretched muscle in my chest that defiantly continued to beat strong.

Instead, the adrenaline kicked in and numbed me all over. The sizeable marks on my arms were stinging, but I almost couldn't feel them. I stopped crying, my breathing slowed and I spent the rest of the morning laid in the same position on my bed feeling drained, unable to move an inch.

Now that I am back in Oxford I feel a little better. I have some level of independence back. I feel more in control. But I cannot forget the intense pain that my mother inadvertently caused, and I regret to say that the desire to end my life has not completely faded.

Sherlock Holmes

x


	12. Chapter 12

Wednesday 12th October 1999

Dear Diary,

I'm afraid I have been drinking, and so this entry is unlikely to end up making much sense. I fear my handwriting may be a little illegible anyway. There is something wonderfully numbing about alcohol, both mentally and physically. As I write, my face feels less real. More like a cushion. Does that make any sense? I began drinking tonight on a whim. I am alone in my room and have pulled out a bottle of vodka and taken shots – enough to leave me suitably intoxicated. I am reminded most nostalgically of the times in my youth when I'd drink and drink to the point of harm, and although I am older and my surroundings are different, I fear that a similar motive was behind my excessive drinking tonight. What is the motive? Curiosity. Emotional pain. An inability to cope with life that usually manifests itself in the control of food.

It is pleasing and happy to be so drunk. It feels as though there is a thick winter duvet enveloping me, cushioning me. Allowing me to ignore and suppress the more difficult aspects of living. I am trying to be eloquent. Perhaps I am succeeding? Perhaps my brain has been hijacked by the vodka and is spewing the kind of nonsense that I would not like to associate myself with. It is hard to tell, being so wonderfully, comfortably drunk as I am. I keep having to correct my spelling and grammar as I go – what you read is no doubt scrupulously edited, as you can probably deduce from the many crossings out which litter the page.

I don't really know what I am trying to say here, I just felt as though I needed to document this curious act of mine – to sit alone for some hours in my room in University College and drink until the room around me begins to move of its own accord. What does it mean? Am I reading too much into it? Is it not normal to enjoy the sensation of numbing and comfort so much? Will I ever live a life free from numbing caused by damage to the self? I should take myself off to bed.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


End file.
